Warped
by Just Silver
Summary: When people ask you how the infamous Draco Malfoy made out after the war, you smile and reply 'He’s a bit tied up at the moment, but last time I saw him, he was very good'.” Power and lust after the war. HarryDraco slash.


A/N: Stark one-shot. The style might be a bit odd, but that's the way this one wanted to come out. If it's too problematic, I'll work on it some, but I like it this way.

H/D- slashiness of the dark variety.

* * *

The eyes were what gave him away.

You wouldn't have recognized him otherwise.

He was thin. He had always been thin but now he looks underfed--his bones as sharp as he liked to think his wit once was. His hair is longer than you remembered. It covers his face like a curtain, giving him a certain glamour that softens the bitter edges he has acquired.

His eyes are hostile and that is familiar. You associate that shade of grey with venom. Even though he is mute, his eyes tell the same story.

It puts you at ease. Tempts you. You would have been far less interested if his spirit had been broken.

He lets you kiss him because you're paying him to. His jaw is locked, his fists clenched uselessly.

You hadn't believed the rumors. The whispers among old friends that he had taken to the streets, the victim of false accusations and his own pride. You had to see for yourself.

Soon it wasn't enough to just see.

He tastes like ash and mint and spent magic.

Where is the boy you used to know? You want him, not the glossed over, thinned down, faded version-- the beautiful, arrogant boy you remembered had been replaced by this burnt out, brittle husk. But that's not quite true, is it? The eyes still burn. He's not gone yet.

He's bitter and hurt, but not broken.

When people ask you how the infamous Draco Malfoy made out after the war, you smile and reply "He's a bit tied up at the moment, but last time I saw him, he was very good."

You give him everything he's used to: money and attention. Freedom? Well, he never really had much of that anyway.

He hates you. And you're sort of fine with that, really, because he lets you have your way with him and he did clean up rather nicely. Then again, you knew he would. His hair has grown still longer. You won't let him cut it. He scowls and says that it makes him look like his father. You tell him that when it gets long enough you'll shut him in a tower with no doors, just a window and you'll make him throw his hair down to you so that you can climb up to him.

Apparently, he has never heard the story of Rapunzel and the whole idea rather frightens him. It sounds cruel enough that you would do it.

He's the only one that thinks you are cruel. Everyone else thinks that you're a hero. He knows better. He has seen your cruelty, has felt it shoved down his throat and has seen it reflected in marks on his wrists and bruises on his skin where you stopped kissing him and started to devour him instead.

In his arms you feel alive. You don't care if the emotion coursing through your veins is love or hate or lust; that's not important. What's important is that you feel, that you have a reaction to him and those burning silver eyes and the voice that is laced with sarcasm and venom and resentment. He makes you feel human, though sometimes your behavior toward him is inhuman.

Sometimes you are gentle with him. You saw him cry once and though you didn't ask why he was crying, you kissed his tears away and held him until he quieted down. He kissed you first, his lips warm and silken, the way they always were, but his body wasn't tensed against yours and arms cam around your shoulders because he wanted them to, not because you caught him off-balance and he needed to steady himself.

That night was the first night you had anything close to sex like normal people. No games, no cruelty, just his body accepting yours… inviting yours even.

Perhaps he didn't hate you and perhaps you didn't hate him. Perhaps you were both so used to your power trip, your perpetual struggle to get the upper hand over one another, that it just became habit.

He never initiates, but once he responds, he kisses you like he needs it the same way he needs air to breathe. It is a relief, you find, to be with him, to be with the person who knows the worst of you and can still look you in the eye.

"Why do you stay?" you ask him. He nurses a split lip, but his eyes have a faint silver sparkle.

"You'd find me."

The response is neutral—a statement of fact.

"You could still try."

He smirks, despite the split lip.

"I stay because you're mine."

"I'm yours?" you echo.

"Of course. After all these years, do you think I'd let anyone else have you? We've earned each other."

You chuckle. It's a warped sort of logic, but it makes perfect sense to you.

* * *

Reviews greatly appreciated. Be a dear and leave one, k? 

Always,

J. Silver


End file.
